


Weak

by syriala



Series: Inktober for Writers 2018 [15]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 16:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16308296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syriala/pseuds/syriala
Summary: Stiles just wanted to sleep. His head was hurting, and he was pretty sure he had more than one cracked rib, and maybe even a cracked cheekbone. He couldn’t be sure, not without an x-ray but he wouldn’t go to the hospital. His dad was already worried enough, Stiles didn’t need to add this to his list.





	Weak

Stiles just wanted to sleep. His head was hurting, and he was pretty sure he had more than one cracked rib, and maybe even a cracked cheekbone. He couldn’t be sure, not without an x-ray but he wouldn’t go to the hospital. His dad was already worried enough, Stiles didn’t need to add this to his list.

And anyway, no one would suspect he was hurt beyond some scrapped skin, because he simply didn’t bruise easily, no matter what he always told the wolves, so there really was no need to worry everyone.

Stiles was simply looking forward to his bed now, desperate to sleep and forget even for a few hours that he had been so close to death and still wore the marks on his body all over.

But when Stiles entered his room, someone was already in it.

“So you really did come back from the dead, and are not just an illusion,” Stiles muttered, before he carefully sat down in his chair, not wanting Peter to know just how weak and vulnerable he felt right now.

Peter could kill him no matter what state Stiles was in of course, but right now Stiles felt like even one sharp look of the other man would split him apart.

“Is your concussion that strong that this is a legitimate concern?” Peter asked, slowly walking up to Stiles until he could sit down on the bed right in front of Stiles and his chair.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles mumbled, unwilling to let Peter know just how badly he was hurting, but of course Peter wasn’t deterred.

“Come here,” Peter softly said and gently took Stiles’ hand in his, and Stiles was fascinated when he saw the black lines crawl up Peter’s arm.

Scott had told him about this, but Stiles hadn’t seen it yet, hadn’t experienced it yet, and it really was an amazing skill. It only took a few seconds for the pain to leave Stiles, but as soon as the unnatural giddiness set in, Stiles snatched his hand back.

“That’s enough,” he sharply said, because he didn’t want to feel that out of control, and especially not with Peter in the room.

“I apologize,” Peter said, and he even seemed sincere. “I simply wished to make it easier for you.”

“Can you gauge my injuries with this?” Stiles asked with a nod at Peter’s arm.

“I know that they are not bad enough to kill you,” Peter gave back. “I can pinpoint that your head and your ribs hurt the worst, but that’s it. It’s not x-ray vision and I’m not a doctor.”

Stiles was honestly a little bit taken aback by Peter’s sincerity, since he had never pegged Peter for someone to admit he was lacking in some departments.

“What do you want?” Stiles asked, directing the conversation to different, and hopefully less Stiles-centric topics. “Is there already a new catastrophe happening?” he wanted to know, expecting Peter to tell him about the next big bad thing that came to town to kill them all.

“No. I came to check up on you,” Peter said. “I noticed that you were hurt earlier and thought someone should probably remember that you are human.”

Stiles felt tears prick at his eyes, sudden and unbidden, and he turned around on his chair, taking deliberately deep breaths. He tried not to think about the fact that while Scott and Lydia and even his dad had just brushed his injuries away, Peter, formerly murderous Peter, was the one who actually took the time to check up on him.

When Peter rested his hand on Stiles’ nape, not even pulling his pain, but just letting him know he was still there, Stiles thought that he probably wasn’t all that successful with calming himself down.

“I’m okay,” Stiles said, embarrassed by how chocked his voice sounded and Peter briefly squeezed his neck.

“You’re really not,” he softly admonished and Stiles slumped in on himself.

“I just want to sleep,” he whispered, newly ashamed at just how weak and pathetic he was.

“Do you want to be alone?” Peter asked, and Stiles pressed his lips together.

He knew what Peter was doing, because it was easier to admit to not wanting to be alone than to ask Peter to stay, even though that was what he was offering. But Stiles was still too scared, too afraid to be alone right now, so he only shook his head once.

“Then get ready for bed,” Peter said, and Stiles was almost sure Peter would still leave when he left the room.

Stiles rushed through the bathroom, unwilling to give Peter even more chance to simply slip out again, but when Stiles came back to his bedroom, Peter was still there. He had moved, was now leaning against the wall at the head of the bed, and Stiles sighed when he saw that Peter deliberately left some space for him.

Stiles was quick to get into bed, fatigue hitting him hard now, and he stretched out besides Peter, pressing his forehead carefully to Peter’s hip. Peter only rested his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, letting him know that he was there and wouldn’t leave and Stiles almost felt like he would sink right through the mattress, he felt so grounded by that simple touch.

“I’ll be here,” Peter reassured him. “Sleep.”

Stiles wanted to bristle at the commanding tone, but instead he blinked once and fell into a deep sleep, protected and safe.


End file.
